I make it to the kitchen and find my peanut butter, settling at the island and thinking while dipping, mentally making our plans. I haven’t told her she’s technically working today. How will that go down? I pull my finger from my mouth slowly, my eyes narrowing, my cunning mind off on a tangent. I’ll convince her it’s a great idea. Just watch me.

I turn on my stool when I hear her coming down the stairs, bracing myself for the vision of her naked in my kitchen. She may as well get used to it. I don’t plan on letting her wear any clothes when she’s here, and if I have my way, which I will, she’ll be here a lot.

I look up, grinning like an idiot as I suck my finger clean. She’s not naked. But she still looks like a dream in one of my dress shirts. My dick buzzes. My body calls for her. “Come here.”

Her face falls into a frown. “No.”

No? What does she mean, no? She can’t stand there like that and then refuse me. “Come . . . here,” I say slowly, my face twitching with the effort to hold back my filthy look.

“Tell me where my dress is.” She looks at me with pure defiance. It doesn’t bode well for the plans I’ve made and of which she is yet privy to. The battle to hold back that filthy look becomes too much, and I slowly rid my hands of my favorite thing, preparing to replace it with another one of my favorite things. Actually, my absolute preferred thing. She’s challenging me. Somewhere between the shower and the kitchen, she’s found her spunk. She’s trying to claw back some control. Call the shots. I thought we’d reached an understanding. Apparently not. I actually love her spirit . . . but not all the time.

Hmmmm. What to do, what to do?

I should give her a chance to rethink because one thing becoming glaringly obvious to me is that she’s more agreeable when she’s in my arms and mindless on this insane chemistry we produce. So I have to ensure she’s in my arms as much as possible. “You have three seconds,” I say, surprising myself. Yet it’s all I have, short of getting up and physically dragging her over. I need her to come to me willingly. Each time she does, it’s a brick stronger in the structure that will be us.

“Three seconds for what?”

“To get your arse over here.” Simple. Keep it simple. Simple but effective. I hope. We’ll soon find out. “Three . . .” I say quietly, my face deadpan, though on the inside I’m laughing my fucking arse off. Not at her. At me. The fucking countdown?

“What happens if you make it to zero?” she asks, her face a picture of uncertainty.